


Dazzle Me

by Nekositting



Series: It Came and It Went: A Tumblr Prompt Repository [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Puns, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Humor, Mild Dub Con with the Wing Kink, Not Beta Read, Out of Character, Prompt Fic, Snake-faced Voldemort, Tumblr: tomione-day, Voldemort as the Devil, Wing Kink, just so you're aware, slight sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 09:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17241869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Nekositting
Summary: “Hermione, I think it is you that doesn’t seem to understand. I am thedevil.” His tone was resolute. He narrowed his gaze, channeling all the exasperation and irritation he felt in that precise moment.Hermione didn't move.Instead, Hermione’s lips curved into a grin, all teeth, her eyes flashing with pure delight that Voldemort wondered if it was not her that was the devil.“Trust me,my Lord, I’m well aware.”A/K/A The Devil is known for being incapable of love. Hermione is determined to romance the living hell out of him.





	1. The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SenLinYu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenLinYu/gifts).



> Okay, so hear me out:
> 
> This was a prompt request by SenLinYu. I never planned to write this, but you see, she caught me when I was at my weakest and so this hilarious thing was born. This is straight up crack treated seriously. This is not a serious fic and was not intended to be.
> 
> You've gotta thank her for this travesty.

“Let me take you out.”

Voldemort didn't understand.

“Come again?”

He blinked, unable to do anything but when Hermione crowded closer to the throne, a determined look in her eyes. She didn’t stop until she was walking up the steps, the low thump of her sneakers hitting the ground synchronous to the beating of his own heart.

“I apologize if I’m being too forward, but—” Hermione stopped just short of his knees before she continued, a cock of her brow that made Voldemort’s insides twitch. “—if I don’t say this now, you’re only going to keep misinterpreting my intentions.”

Then, Hermione was leaning toward him, her hands falling over his forearms lay on the stone. Her touch was cool, unlike the scorching heat of stone, he sat upon.

“ _I_ —” Hermione breathed the words out, crowding closer until her lips were near his. Her breaths fanned against his skin, and Voldemort, for once, was at a loss for words. Never before, in the centuries since he’d fallen from heaven, had anyone attempted what Hermione was. Humans, generally, found him repulsive. “— _want you._ Your intellect, your diction, your mannerisms, and the way your eyes gleam beneath the pyres of your destruction: I find it all attractive.”

Voldemort swallowed, his claws now digging into the throne to settle the noxious sensation forming in the pit of his stomach.

Had he miscalculated when he'd swallowed up the soul of a child molester the day before? It was entirely plausible. They always gave him indigestion.

“Hermione, I think it is you that doesn’t seem to understand. I am the _devil_.” His tone was resolute. He narrowed his gaze, channeling all the exasperation and irritation he felt in that precise moment.

Hermione didn't move.

Instead, Hermione’s lips curved into a grin, all teeth, her eyes flashing with pure delight that Voldemort wondered if it was not _her_ that was the devil.

“Trust me, _my Lord_ , I’m well aware.”

* * *

 

If Voldemort had had hair, he was certain he would have torn it off in that instant.

“ _Hermione_.”

The girl in question paused, her eyes blinking at him as if only just realizing she had once again trapped him in one of the caverns of his hellscape. It was obnoxious, really. Given the height difference, with the top of her head brushing the side of his ribs, she should have been more than aware of where and _whom_ she was following.

There was nowhere he could go, however, that seemed to lose her. He’d tried for the past three weeks to no avail.

“Is there a reason you are pestering me?” Voldemort hissed, hand gesturing to her frazzled hair and tattered human attire and the narrow nook she’d managed to corral him into. “Is there nothing else for you to do?”

Hermione laughed at him, shaking her head as if he’d said the most humorous thing in the world. Voldemort wondered if, indeed, when the girl had come into his care, she had gone mad. It was plausible. Rarely, did a human soul willingly come to the gates of Hell and knock on its doors for admittance.

“I’m sorry, but it seems I just got a little lost,” Hermione stated, an impertinent grin curving over her mouth that only served to irritate him further. “It seems that, whenever it is that you appear, it becomes difficult for me to think. Your eyes—”

Hermione closed in, and Voldemort dragged out his wand to level it beneath her chin. It was a warning.

 _Come any closer and I will curse you_.

The message could not have been clearer.

Hermione, however, didn’t stop. She curled her hand around the wand, gently tilting it away from her chest to press into him. Voldemort released a slow and long-suffering breath from his slit nostrils, unable to stifle it when her body was touching his.

“—they’re beautiful, did you know? One moment, they’re this brilliant shade of crimson, but in others, when you’re lost in thought, they’re almost maroon. It’s fascinating.”

“Step aside, girl.”

Voldemort said, voice terse. He glared at her, his fingers itching to curse her and show her right that instant what he was capable of.

 _You shouldn’t_ , a voice murmured in the back of his head. A voice that sounded disgustingly like God. _This is a soul that is not here for punishment. They have not sacrificed a life, and thus, are out of your authority._

“Is that what you want? To be _alone_ for the rest of your—”

“ _Yes!”_ Voldemort snapped, shoving past her once he’d resolved on _not_ cursing her. It wouldn’t do to start a _war_ over an overeager human that had chosen to remain in hell. Heaven and its disciples were always too quick to slaughter his creatures.

“I have no need for company, let alone the company of a _human_ _soul_.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. He vanished without even looking back.

* * *

“So you’re suggesting that you’re incapable of love?” Hermione inquired, her brilliant eyes flashing at him with what he could assume was both fascination and skepticism. Voldemort rolled his eyes for want of a better reaction.

“I am not suggesting anything, girl. It is _fact_ that I am unable to conceive of such a horrid emotion.” Voldemort relaxed into his throne, allowing his eyes to fall shut if only to relieve a pounding headache that began to pulse between his brows. Where Hermione was concerned, this was the natural consequence.

“I don’t believe that’s true,” Hermione said from beneath his feet.

She had taken to perching herself along the steps of the throne. Nagini had not been opposed to the added company, and that point only served to make him more irritable than usual. He was Nagini’s _master._ Allowing the girl to invade his personal space was borderline treachery, as he saw it.

“Angels are capable of love. Their love of God is one example of this fact.” Voldemort opened his eyes and shot the girl a withering look he hoped would stop her from speaking any further.

Hermione merely smiled at him, her eyes sharpening. Voldemort could tell that she was not to be deterred.

“And if I do remember my bible lessons well, you were an angel before your fall from grace.”

Voldemort did not dignify that with a response. He closed his eyes once again when the girl’s expression became intent, her mouth stretching into a smile that was more predatory than sweet in nature.

“So yes, I very much doubt that you’re incapable of love. I think you are, and—” Hermione’s voice dropped into something husky, the drawl enough to make the nape of Voldemort’s neck itch. He was tempted to scratch it, to quell the strange sensation her voice inspired.

“—that you’re only just _afraid_ to love.” Hermione’s voice came closer this time. It was no longer in the familiar corner of his throne. Voldemort’s eyes snapped open, his hand seizing on the girl’s hand before it could touch his face.

Hermione’s fingers were inches from his cheek, her body looming above his sitting form like a towering shadow. Her eyes were ablaze like the molten core at the heart of hell. She was like Lilith, devious and haunting, except where the demoness was ice, Hermione was a blaze.

“You were vulnerable once, so suffocated by your own capacity for love that it _poisoned_ you, in the end,” Hermione continued, her voice so soft Voldemort struggled to catch each individual inflection.

“But you have no need to be afraid, not with me,” said Hermione, her mouth parting to lick her bottom lip. Voldemort hated how easily he devoured the motion with his eyes. “If you poison yourself, I will be here to _suck_ out the venom from your veins.”

Voldemort flinched, shoving her away and shooting off his seat without hesitation. There was a rush in the back of his head. He couldn’t describe it, place it, but it lingered. Festered. Following him on his way out of the throne room.

It sounded like Hermione’s laughter.

* * *

Voldemort was not _afraid_. He would never lower himself to describing the emotion writhing in the pit of his stomach as such.

It was just unease. Nothing more.

The fact that he did all and more to avoid the girl was negligible, at best. He had spent most of his days already attempting such a task. It was of no consequence to him that he would do what was necessary to maintain that distance.

It was why he had sequestered himself into the darkest corner in hell, past the Gorge of Suffering and the Cavern of Agony. No one had the nerve to follow him there. His elite knew better than to dare disturb him when he disappeared from his usual haunts.

Of course, he should have known that Hermione would lack the sense to not follow him _here_.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Voldemort groaned and brought up his hand to rub his forehead in frustration. He counted to ten and back in his head to calm his nerves, to curb the violent impulse now thrumming in his veins.

“Obviously,” Voldemort hissed, refusing to turn and face the girl. He didn’t know what he’d do if he did. The last time she’d accosted him had nearly shattered his self-restraint. He didn’t dare imagine what might occur should he look now.

_Not after what she’d said._

“It’s not going to work, you know,” Hermione sighed before shuffling closer, his ears taking note of each individual step in the small nook. They echoed as if a thousand men were walking through. “If you think that running and skulking in the shadows is going to make me go away, you’re mistaken.”

The footsteps didn’t stop once they echoed directly from his left side. She didn’t touch him, thankfully, but Voldemort didn’t bet on her not doing so eventually. She had little to no self-control when Voldemort was concerned. He knew this fact all too well.

“I don’t understand why you’re making this so much more complicated than it needs to be.”

Voldemort whirled around, unable to mask his incredulity. _He_ was making things complicated? More complex and dramatic than it seemed?

Voldemort let out a derisive laugh when Hermione lifted a brow, her head tilting to one side and her hands settling on her hips. It would have been cute if it weren’t so irritating.

“I am the _devil_ . I don’t know how else to explain this to you. I have no _need_ nor _desire_ to entangle myself with useless sentimental ties.” Voldemort straightened into his full height, to cow her and show her exactly how little patience he had left for this charade.

“And _I’ve_ already told you that I don’t care.”

Hermione stepped up to him, ignoring both the menacing air he’d been exuding from the moment she’d shown up and the scathing look he was shooting at her. It was infuriating.

He was the _devil_.

He relished in the pained cries of humans falling into his grasp.

She should not be interested in him, bent on—

“I am only asking for one night. You do not have to commit to more if you are truly not interested.” Hermione's hands made their way to his, grabbing them both and squeezing. The sensation was enough to draw out a shudder, to make his frustration stall in his head.

It was...nice. Her fingers were nothing like the scalding stones beneath his feet nor the sparks of heat that bloomed beneath his skin.

“It is just one. We can take a little excursion into the human world, leave hell in the capable hands of one of your elite, and visit one of my favorite spots when I was still alive.”

Voldemort didn’t know what to say. The girl was nothing if not persistent. She had been chasing after his heels from the moment he’d allowed her entrance into his private library in the castle. From that moment, their relationship had evolved into one that allowed her freedom to peruse and speak to him regarding his collections.

If he had known that _this_ was how his kindness would be construed by the girl, he never would have granted her access to it in the first place.

 _But what can one night hurt?_ A voice, one he wanted to silence sighed into the back of his head. _If you indulge her, just this once, you can cut ties the moment the night is over._

It only had to be one night, she had said. He didn’t need to entertain her beyond that.

“Fine.”

The girl goggled at him, her eyes going wide. Voldemort tried not to roll his eyes.

_Honestly._

“Really?” Hermione breathed, her hands squeezing his all the tighter and her cheeks going a bright pink. Voldemort was at a loss. That was not the reaction he had been expecting, though it certainly made sense that she _would_ react this way.

He had spent the majority of his days avoiding her, it only was reasonable, Voldemort decided, that she would anticipate another rejection.

“Yes. Now, if you please, let go of my hands before I change my mind.”

Hermione whipped away from him, her eyes excited. Voldemort couldn’t help but wonder if allowing this was a mistake.

“W-well, yes, _wonderful._ Simply wonderful. Tomorrow, then? At eight?” Hermione rushed, her hands coming together in front of her to lace together.

Voldemort supposed he could get someone on short notice to oversee his realm. He did not imagine it would take more than an hour.

“Yes, that’s fine.”

Then, she smiled. It lit up her face, made her eyes glitter, her cheeks redden.

Voldemort swallowed, throat suddenly thick. He wondered if he was catching a cold, if this strange lump in his throat was—

“It’s a date, then. Hell’s going to be missing a demon,” Hermione said with a wink and turned.

Voldemort choked, unable to mask the croaking sound.

He was regretting his decision already.

* * *

“No.”

Voldemort refused to try whatever concoction she’d gotten him at the little coffee shop. He didn’t know what it was, and from the smell, he didn’t think he would like it either. Nothing could compare to the savory flavor of a soul, and to dirty his palate with anything else was out of the question.

“Just one sip. It can’t possibly kill you,” Hermione said at the same time she shoved the beverage into his face, crowding him into the booth. He was getting tired of the girl invading his space. No one would ever take him seriously again if he kept permitting such impertinence.

“I agreed to come with you tonight, not that I would _drink_ or eat from the human world. It is enough that you’ve wrangled me into a human library.”

Hermione pouted, and Voldemort sighed, hating the way her eyes began to shimmer with tears. It was disconcerting, that look. He snatched the cup from her hands just for the sake of making it stop.

With a glare, he took a generous sip and stopped.

Something rich and sweet flooded his mouth. Voldemort drank more of it, relishing in the rush of ice that gathered from his mouth down to his throat. It tasted like how he’d imagined a pure soul did. He hadn’t had the luxury of consuming one in ages, but here, in this empty coffee shop—

“Do you like it?” Hermione’s voice drew him out of his thoughts, and Voldemort, content with the chill in his fingers and the warmth in the girl’s eyes, allowed it. It suited her. He liked it better than the pitiful expression she’s twisted her face into earlier. “I figured that since you’ve been in hell, you might appreciate an iced coffee.”

She was right, of course. She almost always was about these things.

Voldemort, however, was not about to admit that.

“It is...acceptable.” Voldemort took another sip of the drink, relaxing into the cushions at his back. Hermione pushed closer to him on the seat, but by this point, he didn’t even care.

“Just acceptable? You’ve hardly let it go since you started drinking,” Hermione pointed out, a small smirk gracing her lips that made the content emotion curling over his senses dissipate into nothing. He scowled, ready to shove the drink back into her waiting hands out of spite.

He didn’t though when Hermione’s hands fell over his on the cup. He swallowed hard, his worldview narrowing to the press of her hands against his, and the way she leaned in to look him deeper in the eyes. It was intimate. Daring.

Voldemort didn’t know why he wasn’t pushing her aside. He was frozen in this moment. Consumed.

“Is it hot in here, or is it just you?” Hermione breathed out, and Voldemort reared back so hard he dropped the drink onto his lap. The cold flooded his dark robes, but Voldemort didn’t care.

That was, possibly, the worst thing he’d ever had the displeasure of hearing.

It was _horrid_ , sleazy, disgusting and—

 _You find it endearing_ , a traitorous voice said in his head at the same time he vanished the mess on his lap and turned to glare out the window. _You find her attentions pleasing, even if you want to deny it._

Voldemort decided to ignore the voices, if only to survive the next half hour with the girl now laughing beside him.

* * *

The dates didn’t stop.

After the first one, Voldemort found that he did not outright _dislike_ her company. Even in hell, she was entertaining to converse with, even when she spent half of her time trying to flirt with him.

Those instances grated him, of course. But, Voldemort found, that the longer he spent his days in her company, the less disagreeable he found her attention.

He resolved not to explore _why_ this was the case.

“You know,” Hermione began, sitting on the left side of his throne this time. His hand was itching to touch the wild mass of curls that were just inches from his grasp. They stuck out, gleaming different shades of brown and red and other shades when the flames in the fiery pits caught them just right. “I didn’t think you’d keep coming out with me. I thought there wasn’t a chance... _in hell_.”

Voldemort groaned, the urge to pet her shriveling into nothing in an instant. This was the aspect of her personality he hated most.

 _Or rather_ , his mind supplied _, this is the aspect you appreciate the most._ Voldemort ignored the thought.

“Could you not do this right now?” Voldemort sighed, knocking his head back into the stone beneath his back. Perhaps, if he hit himself hard enough, he didn’t have to think about the reality that he had come to appreciate her commentary _including_ these terrible one-liners.

“Why not? I know how much you enjoy them.”

Voldemort clucked his tongue, annoyed. That was not the _issue_. Whether he liked it or not had little to no bearing on her conduct.

“I do not. We’ve discussed this repeatedly.”

Hermione laughed, the sound bubbling over his senses in a way that annoyed him to no end. It was in the inflection, in the notes. She was relishing in his own suffering, it seemed.

_It’s why she is here, no? She more than belongs in hell even if her soul is pure as snow._

“The King of Lies does suit you, but I wonder,” Hermione drawled, her voice still thick with pleasure. “Are the lies for me or are they for yourself?”

Voldemort sucked in a sharp breath, annoyance and something else, an emotion he didn’t want to understand curling inside him. It was like the chill of the coffee she’d had him drink.

“You have no need to lie to me. I know precisely who it is that I’m courting, and I know exactly what I want you to _do_ to me, should you allow.” Hermione’s voice lowered, almost a whisper.

Voldemort swallowed hard.

“If I had any horns, _my lord_ , I’d want you to grab me by them and take me out for a spin.”

Voldemort blinked, unable to curb his frown when his heart refused to settle in his chest.

“I can assure you that it’d be one _hell_ of a ride.”

Voldemort dropped his hand to her head, claws threading through the strands. He was tempted to yank on that hair and smash her head back into the throne, but he didn’t. He kept petting her, instead, deciding right then that this would be the first and last time he did this.

“That feels lovely,” Hermione breathed out, her voice still husky and thick with—

_Desire for you. She wants you and here you are, denying her._

“Don’t stop.”

Voldemort did not, even when better sense pointed to pulling his hand away and erasing the memory of how her hair felt beneath his fingers.

* * *

Voldemort’s patience had all but snapped.

He had Hermione pinned to the throne, his hand closing around her neck. She was gazing up at him, indulgent and smiling, a devious glint in her eyes that said _‘yes, this is precisely what I want._ ’

“What have you _done_ to me?” He hissed, his heart beating so wildly in his chest he wondered if it would crawl right out of his throat. It refused to obey him. “What _curse_ is this?”

Hermione laughed beneath him, her hands sliding to the hand still on her neck before trailing up his forearm. He repressed the shiver that shot up his spine. Her fingers undid him, every time. They fragmented his self-control the longer she touched him.

“I’ve done nothing to you, _my Lord_ ,” Hermione sighed, her eyes fluttering shut at the same time he squeezed in warning. It seemed that even this show of violence did not seem to deter her. Voldemort was running out of methods to push her away. “But not for lack of effort.”

Voldemort’s throat constricted, wondering if it was now _her_ hand that was strangling him for each and every breath. He scowled at her.

“You will stop this. You will give me back my—”

Hermione’s other hand fell to his shoulder, twisting through the threadbare material of his cloak, and dragged him closer. Voldemort let out a shocked breath, his grip on her neck wavering when his face was inches from hers. He could taste her breath with each inhale he took.

“Just give in. We’ve been dancing around one another for months now,” Hermione murmured, her tongue peeking out to lap at her bottom lip. Voldemort became entranced by the wet and pink shade of her tongue. His insides quivered with hunger, _something_ , he didn’t know.

He wondered if this was lust, if this was—

“And the way you look at me, I know that you want me as much as I do you. A pure human soul that is not as pure as she seems. You’re _curious_ to taste me.”

Voldemort shook, his grip on her neck loosening until his hand was merely brushing against her bare neck. He wanted to keep touching it, to chase after the vibrations of her swallowing and speaking.

“It’s okay, _my Lord._ There’s no harm in succumbing to your desires, I succumbed to mine from the very moment you opened your doors and let me inside.”

Voldemort’s self control snapped, sinking into her cool embrace and the moisture in her mouth. He traced his mouth over hers, savoring the little laughs and sighs she released from his nearness.

She was a breath of fresh air.

He slipped between her parted thighs, lips tracing but not yet kissing along her skin. He could spend his days here, enjoying the sensation of her shudders beneath him, of her hands now curling over his shoulders and _digging_ into his back.

He pushed his hips up into hers and—

“Is that a snake in your pants or are you just happy to see me?”

Voldemort froze against her, whipping away from her with a shocked expression he didn’t bother concealing when she had the audacity to wink and pair it with a pair of finger guns. The sound of her laughter in her eyes, along with the sight of the horrid gesture she paired with it would haunt him for the rest of his days.

The fact the _snake_ in his pants hadn’t withered at such a display only added salt to the wound.

 


	2. The Devil is in the Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Here's a bonus.
> 
> SenLinYu here just can't get enough of the wing kink, and well, who am I to _not_ oblige her when it's my fault?
> 
> Have at it!

Voldemort was exhausted.

He was tired of the stupid souls that made their way into his realm. He was tired of the angels that made their way to his realm to hound him about several deaths attributed to his name (they had not, but it wasn’t as though he was about to deny it).

However, none of these bureaucratic affairs could ever compare to the woman leaning on his throne, her fingers teasing at the back of his neck. Somehow, since he had given in to her predilections, she had become more overbearing than before. There was hardly a moment where he was alone to himself.

She was everywhere. 

The only reason she hadn’t followed him into his bathroom was solely that he’d threatened to stop coming up to the human world with her. 

“You know, I was wondering,” Hermione began, once the last soul before his throne was dragged to the seventh circle to be dealt with accordingly. The fact the serial rapist had not lost any of his terror despite Hermione’s attentions had been pleasant. Not that anyone would dare taunt him, even with her presence clinging to his side.

Voldemort was physically revolting, but Hermione, he found, had a penchant for cruelty that almost rivaled his own. She had no compunctions threatening the controversial characters that earned a permanent stay in hell.

“Hmm?” Voldemort hummed, encouraging her to get her question out of the way as opposed to later. Later would involve her asking personal questions whilst in public. Or, worse yet, pestering him with terrible puns and that obnoxious finger guns gesture that typically followed.

“Well, they say that when an angel falls from grace, they lose their wings.” 

Voldemort didn’t say anything, the tone of voice was more than indicative that she was gearing up to ask. Her thought process was odd, but not one he hadn’t grown accustomed to in the month they’d been together (and “shagging” as she liked to call it).

“And well, I’ve noticed that the angels that followed you at the end of the War still have wings, even if they’re more bat-like.” Hermione’s fingers began to knead over the nape of his neck. Voldemort relaxed into it, enjoying the cool touch.

“That would mean that  _ you  _ have wings, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen yours.” 

Voldemort stilled beneath her fingers, noting the almost dangerous note in her voice now. It was still sweet, but Voldemort did not miss the undercurrent of  _ ‘why haven’t you shown me’  _ in her voice. 

“Is that because you, being cast out from heaven,  _ lost  _ your wings, or is it simply because you hide them away like they’re an embarrassment?”

Voldemort wanted to shove her off the throne. The impulse was so strong he was vibrating with it. 

He hated talking about his wings. It was the only vestige of his angelic self that still grated, that he could have done without for the rest of his existence.

“No.”

Hermione’s fingers paused before she renewed her touching. 

“No, as if you have no wings or no, you’re not embarrassed?” 

Voldemort released a long stream of air from his nostrils. 

“I will not discuss my wings with you. It is  _ none  _ of your concern.”

Voldemort made sure to emphasize the none with a pointed glance in her direction. 

“Oh, but that hardly seems fair —”

“ _ No!” _ Voldemort snarled, shooting off his throne with all the indignation he possessed. Hermione was staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, her mouth parted and a flush on her cheeks. It didn’t take her long to recover, however. 

Her expression twisted into one that was equal parts devious and calculating. Voldemort did not at all appreciate the glimmer in her eye.

“Oh, but  _ my Lord _ , we’ve already know so much about each other,” Hermione rose from the seat, the sound of his title enough to elicit a shiver up his spine. He didn’t know how she did it. How, with one word, she managed to get beneath his skin and get him to acquiesce. 

He was the  _ devil _ , and yet—

“I want to see yours.” Hermione strolled over to him, her hips swaying, her wild curls wild as the honeycomb of her eyes. “I want to see how an  _ angel _ hides his wings.”

Voldemort swallowed when she was inches in front of him, her eyes boring into his. His arms were frozen at his sides, his knee-jerk reaction to halt whatever it was that she was doing, fading away. He was trapped, the moment her fingers touched his cheek, his complete undoing.

He was  _ weak _ to this.

The thought should have upset him, but this was the reality.

He wondered if this was how humans felt when a demon burrowed into their ribcage and devoured them from the inside.

“Alright.”

Hermione’s smile lost its edge, blooming into something sweet that made him think of those days curled in the library with her head on his lap as he pet her hair. 

“Thank, I’m glad you could see things my way. Hell hath no fury like a woman  _ scorned _ .”

_ Yes,  _ Voldemort thought, his insides writhing with anxiety and desire,  _ hell was no match for her _ .

* * *

 

Voldemort turned away from her, a frustrated huff leaving him. 

He knew he had agreed to this, but that did not mean he had to like it. In fact, he utterly loathed it to the point that he’d banished all the demons from hell so that he could deal with the embarrassment that would come after the fact.

They did not need to bear witness to his shame, nor, for that matter, to be around after Hermione gushed and giggled at them. He already knew what to expect, his mind racing with all the possible puns she’d let out.

_ Am I dead, Angel-face? Because those wings are heavenly! _

Voldemort cringed, dropping his robes from his shoulders to bare his back to her gaze. 

“Do  _ not  _ touch them,” Voldemort hissed once he’d managed to wrangle his nerves. “If you so much as graze them, I will put them away.”

There was silence at his back. It weighed on him, reminding him again of  _ what  _ it was he was about to do. He almost changed his mind when there was a shift in the air at his back, and then—

“Alright.”

Voldemort let out a relieved sigh before shifting, splaying out his hands in front of him and closing his eyes. He channeled his energy to his back, willing them to emerge, to pierce through his flesh and curl.

It was easy. They came to him without a fight despite never allowing them out since his banishment from heaven. He stretched them, popping each of the joints with the motion before spreading them to their full size.

He’d give her a show and then promptly pretend  _ none  _ of this ever happened.

“Alright, you’ve seen them now—”

A finger trailed down the outer side, where the bone became ligament and webbing. Voldemort’s knees buckled, his hands coming out to catch him as he fell to his knees from the earth-shattering sensation. His skin was thrumming, itching. Electrified.

“W-what did I tell  _ you _ !” Voldemort hissed before the sound morphed into a low groan when her hands splayed over the wing, now tracing patterns he could not follow on the inner wing, nearest to the stump at his back and to its tip. 

It was like he’d caught on fire.

“They’re sensitive, are they not?” Hermione asked from above, but before Voldemort could snap out an answer, her other hand made its way into the other wing, nails caressing the flaps and membraneous skin. 

Voldemort couldn’t move, his mouth was frozen in a mask of what he imagined was  _ horror _ . His veins were boiling, his navel so taut he thought he might snap. And her  _ fingers _ , every time her nails caught on a ridge, he couldn’t think.

“How cute.”

It was too much. 

His spine bowed, curling further onto his knees, but Hermione did not stop, following him until he felt her knees bump against his the back of his hips, her breaths now curling over one. He groaned, a pleading sound he never thought he was capable of making leaving him. 

In the corner of his mind, he’d never been more grateful that he’d dismissed everyone from hell for this. This was humiliating.

The nerve of  _ her _ , to touch him in this way and—

Her lips kissed along and end, and Voldemort was lost.

The wave of ecstasy that touch elicited had him coming undone, the catch of her lips, of her fingers trailing over them, touching his wings in ways he’d never allowed someone else to.

“This must feel  _ heavenly _ ,” Hermione muttered into his skin, tongue catching the curve of his wing. Voldemort didn’t have the wherewithal to complain, to  _ cry _ . “I don’t know why you would hide something so precious from me.”

Voldemort let out a relieved sigh once she’d pulled away, but he still felt her against his skin. Her saliva was cooling on his wings, vibrating with residual shocks.

“Baby, we might be in hell, but we can make  _ heaven _ out of this.”

The words registered, but Voldemort’s brain was still reeling. The reality of what she’d done, of the cooling wetness in his trousers, a horrifying precedent of what was to follow. 

Voldemort had forgotten just how sensitive wings could be. Hermione, he knew, would not.

She’d remind him as many times as she needed to.

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this tumblr prompt:
> 
>  


End file.
